


Footwork

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood, Ear injury, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: It's sparring day at the dojo, and Malcolm comes away moderately scathed.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Ear Injury. The lightest smidge of Brightwell.
Kudos: 53
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Footwork

Jab - jab - jab. Malcolm’s sparring partner kept testing him with harmless paws, gauging whether he still had Malcolm’s head at appropriate length. Seeing if he would flinch or fall into the trap of overcommitment.

He didn’t. His glove easily parried the softballs, and he hit with a cross, taking advantage of the exposed left side of his opponent’s face. The man retaliated quickly with a hook, and Malcolm bobbed to avoid him.

At a distance, Josh had the advantage. Six foot with bands of muscle wrapped around his thighs, his legs were deadly. A well-timed kick, and his sparring partner went home with bruises. Too many, some of the team had complained.

A relative newcomer to the dojo at two years, Josh was a software engineer by day and took his frustrations out on the pads at night. Argument over refactoring code? A flurry of one-hundred straight punches and fifty sprawls. Measured by commits instead of meaningful progress? Superman punch, tornado kick. A flash of adrenaline sapped down to satisfaction.

He wasn’t good yet, but his strikes connected, and he improved. Enough to stretch sampling all of the dojo’s disciplines. Enough to get issued a rib guard, headgear, and thicker shins. Enough to join the sparring rotation every Thursday night where they faced each teammate, regardless of weight class. He towered over some, yet there were bigger still, his technique constantly challenged.

Malcolm closed the space, a cross - hook - cross setting him up for a clinch and knee to the ribs. Force there, yet measured, years of discipline controlling movements that taught without injuring. A dance of trial and error rotating through each person faced: grimace, too much - wince, just right. Opponents, yet partners: they couldn’t spar if they were wounded. They might not want to come back to the dojo either. Four rounds into the night with different partners, the routine was second nature.

Josh used a glove to the face and knees to Malcolm’s chest to put distance between them again. When Malcolm’s glove raised to cover his face, Josh cracked a round kick to his ribs. Malcolm weaved, avoiding a second.

“Lay off a little,” Malcolm reminded around his mouth guard, thrum stemming from an impact closer to 90% than 50%.

Jab - parry - jab, and Malcolm faked an elbow into a straight knee, Josh opting to go for a clinch of his own. It’s easy to escape from, Malcolm throwing rabbit knees and sliding in Josh’s inexperience.

Breaking away opened the opportunity for Josh to push kick into Malcolm’s stomach and fire a round kick at his head, the bullet’s power bouncing off his glove and whipping his neck to the side, spinning his headgear. His head dropped; his fingers pulled out of one glove to straighten his headgear and get some air.

“Are you okay?” Josh checked, both of his gloves off and reaching for Malcolm’s shoulder. He’s not whaling on Malcolm for pleasure, but he also doesn’t realize the crunch his kicks leave behind.

Josh needed more restraint, more awareness of his body. An ability to discern what’s a playful pop and what would keep his opponent from work the next day. All bits of conversation Malcolm wanted to have with Sensei as soon as the whooshing quieted in his ear.

“You’re bleeding,” Josh pointed out, a few drops of blood marring the blue mat.

Malcolm looked at his feet. Drip - shouldn’t have curled from the push. Plink - should have grabbed the kick. Plunk - should have side-stepped.

He reached for the velcro at the back of his head and loosened the clasp, a gush of blood releasing down his neck. A change of pace from the steady fall of sweat dampening his gi.

“Sensei!” Josh hollered, eyes darting across the room.

Dropping the headgear, Malcolm brought his fingers to the liquid sensation, finding them covered in red. His eyes marveled over the film running from his fingertips. He was _bleeding_.

“Sit down,” Josh urged, thinking he was going to pass out - his hair spiked twenty ways with sweat and his eyes glazed seeing nothing beyond him.

“No more biohazard on the mat.” Malcolm walked off, bowing at the edge of the mat and sitting on a wood bench.

Blood dripped between his fingers where he held his left ear, disappearing into the black of his gi top. Sensei approached him with a towel. “Let me see,” he ordered, and Malcolm let his fingers fall.

A jagged cut streamed blood where the top of his outer ear had ripped away from his head. Pulled with the headgear, the seam couldn’t withstand the force. Facial injuries and risk of concussion - exactly why they didn’t throw no holds barred at each other’s heads.

“Hold this on there,” Sensei pushed the towel against the wound and waited for Malcolm to take it. “Might need a couple stitches.”

“I can take you,” Josh offered, knowing the man didn’t drive.

But Malcolm had had enough for one day. He didn’t need another reminder of 110% instead of 50%. Didn’t need the frustration when he was trying to release energy, not add to it. Needed his diversion, not the side effects that sometimes came with it.

“I’ll call my friend,” Malcolm declined the offer and explained to Sensei, “there’s a couple drops on the mat.”

“I’ll get it.” Josh jogged for the cleaning cubby, grabbing gloves, paper towels, and disinfectant.

“He’s throwing too hard,” Malcolm complained.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sensei promised, pulling Malcolm’s phone from his cubby and handing it to him.

* * *

“Well, you don’t look like _Carrie_ anymore,” Gil teased when Malcolm entered the precinct the next morning. “A little bit _Frankenstein_.” He took in the small row of stitches above his ear.

“What’s with the body art?” JT asked over coffee. "Pull a Van Gogh?"

“Guy at the dojo didn’t know his own strength,” Malcolm explained, shrugging.

“You punch him back?” Dani prompted.

“Kick,” Malcolm clarified, “and no, this was the end to sparring day.”

“So how many injuries has this been?” Dani wondered with an eyebrow raised.

“I only get hurt when there’s a freak accident, a newbie, or someone trying to showboat,” Malcolm defended.

“Soooo, first injury since last week?” Dani smirked.

“Very funny. You try to deal with some of the guys twice the size of you,” he challenged.

“Like I haven’t before,” Dani leveled back at him.

“This is different.”

“Turn back, _Indy_ ,” Gil warned. He was embarking on one peril he wouldn’t find his way out of.

“Us sparring downstairs is not the same as sparring at the dojo,” Malcolm continued, never able to back down.

“Then take me,” Dani returned plainly.

“You would need to take classes,” he reasoned.

“So take me to them,” she arrived at the logical conclusion. “I’ve had similar experiences.”

“Bro, she can’t come back looking any worse than you,” JT chimed in.

They all laughed, Dani clapping him on the back. “I see what you did there, Detective Powell,” Malcolm jabbed as they left the room. "You could have just asked. People bring their significant others all the time."

Her eyes grew, unsure if he even realized what he'd said. " _You_ could have been less of an idiot." Dani crossed to her desk. “Need some way to practice my footwork.”

"It's - "

She cut him off before he could say anything suggestive. "Not here."

* * *

_fin_


End file.
